A rose laden woman lingered on the crisp edge of the earth – the driplets shimmering off the stroke of her swaying hips like brush fire, flashes of it shifting here and there as her slender thighs stretched. The past twenty minutes she had spent in the water; swimming – contorting the muscles of each shoulder, thigh, leg and hock to become a perfect machine – exercise was a must for her – there would be no life without it. The sultry hush of the silent landscape was stretched with what seemed like eternity. She debated in those moments to get back in, but instead chose to stay standing upon her earthly perch. Alluring delusion’s, she could tempt sanity to take a bite, the vice of the garden of eden. The red rock princess shifting the short flash of her red curls; the long tendrils across her neck and spine definite and feisty, flicking upwards in a disarray of ire. The day was not sweltering, ardent really, and she challenged the sun to dry her faster. She is not as tall as most of her counterparts; a woman born of lush kisses and midnight savagery, she matches the birthright with the edge of her sharp teeth. But for the moment she is calm – not even bothering to pay attention to anything else surrounding her. Very few knew she was back in the territories; and even fewer knew who she was. Emerald eyes- touching on the edge of a green champagne shifted then, watching the shifting grasses for the mice and feathered quarry that muttered about. But other than that there was little to impose on her moments alone. With both parent’s dead she had to think about what she truly wanted; and that in itself was an annoying façade. It was obvious she wanted rebel – she wanted the creed to be something that was tethered to the true birthright of the redrock. But she had not the ability to grasp such a dream at the moment. She could not live life; especially with a ghostly mother, wondering what could have been. She is a bitch who looks towards the future; and those brusque cliffs were apart of it. The hungry wind danced across the delicate display on her body; and for a moment she allowed it to tempt her, shifting her body across the ground in a ardent splurge of random exhilaration. Invigorating and full in bloom, she soothes the 3am senses in violence and beauty – twisting onto her back with no remorse and not heeding any care of exposure; she twists in the fullness of the blooming flower petals, each limb stretching with each twist of her agile spine. Sibyl, girlishly for maybe once in her life, fancied the reminiscing of her moment alone – hair aflame and mischief consuming her delicious pretense of time she groans with the delight of it all.

The poster child of aggression, of unpredictability and disaster. He has grown into a war machine, a beast not to be fucked with. Self preservation had been the ultimate goal in life, striving to achieve more every day, which had eventually led to the decision that he was to return to his birth land. He was to return and rule the fucking world - and he had every intention to do so. He knew these parts of the land like the back of his paw, having often drifted towards the highest peaks of the styx, just for the thrill. The once forgotten sound of buzzards ahead is enough to bring back fond memories, a smirk molding against the finer lines of his masculine face. It was a face that bore the painful marks of war, scars carved into the thin flesh of his cheeks, upper jaw, and even around his eyes. Age has hidden well over the years, as silver strays hide well within the already whites of his coat, accompanied by a few, meager greys around the muzzle with a few stragglers at his chin. Physically he is broad, built for war and brutality. It's as the Valentine male peaks around the corner that she has came into view, a beautiful deity - with auburn fur and fuck you eyes. Sibyl was a sight for sore eyes, a pretty little thing for this old man to gawk at. Scar tattered lips tug back, his pace quick as he attempts to move in, stopping at a mere seven feet from Sibyl's left. "My, my." it is all he would say, the brunt of his skull dropping as a breeze would ruffle the hairs of his mohawk, the trademark rebel 'x' also noticeable, engraved deep within the meat of his shoulder.

She can smell him first; he is much larger than she is. This is the first thing she notes – mostly because it is the truth that she is a smaller creature; born this way due to the stress of the way she was born. Quick and viperous however, she had trained since she could first walk – and her agility and ability to maneuver was beyond comprehension at this point. She knows that possibly in the future it might create issues with her hips and her tendons; but she would be old and grey before that happened – and a rebel, so her body would withstand the ability of time. She is instantly on her toes; the fine burning of her auburn tresses shifting along the mowhawk along her neck and back – violent lemon-lime eyes tracing the very contours of his beastly form. She feels the edge of her lips pull over the very tip of her teeth; expressing the white of the bottom of each sharp point – but she is only ready for something to break out. He doesn’t seem to just be here to talk – his interest seems to be beyond that of just talking. But she is morbidly interested – if only because she can see the edge of the scar along his shoulder and she wonders in that moment the trademarks she sees along his body, and the obvious things - if he is a valentine. A older Valentine, but one none the less. She feels the calloused edge of her pads shift in the cold rock below – her tail lifting only slightly as she lights on /fire/ - a red rock harpy with the bite of a hellhound. She eyes him ; however she does not move – her body just subtly shifts into a position that would give her a upper hand if she desired to move; or to attack – whichever route she decided to take. It is so quiet, these movements – breathtaking really as each muscle shifted along her skin, tendons loosening in her hocks. But she doesn’t seem to be doing these things – instead her artistic feature’s – so erotic and almost /gentle/ in a way that screams animal. ” Staring is rather fucking rude..” - she breathes the word’s in a hot hiss of word’s – a lullaby of syllables that press together in a gentle expression of her attitude. They are not snapped or written unwell – rather just spoke as if she expected him to understand the length of respect she deserved.

He stares at her, the brunt of his weight shifting deliberately towards his rear end as he takes a few more steps closer, watching as she is still, as she is ever so elegant. Lethal breathes, masculine chest falling as he would exhale against the chilled, winter air. A smirk finds his lips, hairs of his brows furrowing into one another as she speaks - her voice enough to draw him in further, to drown him in a carnivorous desire - suddenly hungry. But for what? Those beautiful, auburn stands at fur that cling to her hide? The muscles that move, that twist beneath it all? There was power within her stance, something the white male could come to easily appreciate ( obsess over ? ). An instant craving to make her his has engulfed his very reality, “You like it, besides, who ever said I was fucking polite?” his words are a brief retaliation, his tone raw, rough - as if worn from years of shooting whiskey and smoking cigarettes. Scarlet eyes have once again drifted to marvel over the woman before him, to sip and take his time, admiring her like a sweet wine. “Who are you?” the beast inquires, a brow lifting as he has taken note to the familiar Mohawk between her ears - he should have known, after all, she was a Valentine. Would he even know her parents? After all, she was the age of some of his children - or even, grandchildren. It only further pleased him, she had a lot of potential, a lot of room to grow into something beautifully aged over time. “My name is Lethal,” was it really necessary to state his last name, at this point?

She licks the edge of her tongue across her teeth in a murmur of poisoned intimacy. Lashes fluttering low as the slender press of her hips slides delicately in parallel to his own, like a hot feline whom shies away from its masters demanding touch. She felt the sibilant hiss of the frigid air kiss and smooth across her temple; felt the boldness of his eyes as they roam her body. But she does not lash the curtain closed – instead she invites him to look at what he cant /touch/, the tortured nudity of her teeth would express this to him with a whimsical hunger. She is hushed in the burning flames of his passionate eyes; the wicked lips and the curve of her own lips shivered harshly in the bite of his feverish eyeballing. love is blind whispered satan - a radiance as vehement words caress her ears, she lifts her neck ever so slightly – a cobra fanning its dislike. ” The same wolf who said I liked it..” - she snarls the retort ; now getting fed up with his smart-ass attitude. No man would speak to her like that – he would understand who she was, and what she was. Her father would have had a hay day had he heard a man speaking to her like he just had. The flick of her maintained composure is obscured – finding really no true reason she should tell him anything – but the looks of this man brought her interest – and even though she was silent as he gave his name it caught nothing. He gave no last name; but she knows there is something more there. ” Sibyl Wrex Valentine – my father was Finch Valentine..” - she mutters the words, perhaps hoping he would express his own linage – perhaps he would tell her what she wanted to know. What her sudden craving to hear was. Because – lets face it – she knew the signs – however telltale they were, and this man was older than her own father. He was something of the old – and only this perked her sudden interest. ” You’re a Valentine as well..” - she presents him the obvious, the rugged X marked into her skin, marred into her soul expressing as she slicked to the right suddenly, a mark her father had proudly presented her.

So she did not like games? It was a shame, after all, Lethal was a natural born smartass. It was engraved heavily into his DNA - not something he was likely to get rid of in an instant. His weight would shift from paw to paw, before ultimately coming to a seated position, scarlet eyes gauging her with a decree of unmistakable interest. However, in his prime he is no fool and does not allow his guard to falter, especially in the presence of a woman who expressed such … promise. While he is intrigued that they are somehow related, he does not know her father nor many of the Valentines younger than he. A shrug of the shoulders lift, but not as to dismiss her - but merely, he did not know the names, they were not familiar. Sibyl is looking for more, prodding him for his parents - for his ancestral names. A brow lifts, lips pursed just briefly. “My father was Saxon Valentine, my mother was Lolita Alberaq,” he hoped that this would be good enough of an answer ( his tone is riddled with ignorant pride, having always loved both his mother and father ), that he wouldn’t have to spend the time telling her every last name. “Anything else?” the words hit the air dryly, tongue slithering loose as a breeze engulfs the duo, tussling around loose strands of hair as they sit in a moment of silence, perhaps contemplating his next move. It is then that the beast would rise to his feet, a low rumble escaping the depths of his breast as he takes another step or two closer towards Sibyl, daring her to do something - yearning to feel her, to experience the wrath of a potential tantrum should she lash out at him inching nearer and nearer. For now, a space of roughly six feet should remain between, his head held low in protection to his vital throat as ruby eyes peer at her through harrowed slits.

” My grandmother Natalya, told me a story of her mother Mercy Alberaq , she was Saxons left hand, his best friend. I heard the stories of how he adopted Mercys son’s, and how close they were. Lolita was Mercy’s sister – history is important..” - she scolds him for not caring about history – after all – that was how she knew what she wanted out of life. The stories her grandmother told her – they were beautiful and deadly – scornful and depressing. It was detailed because, like her grandmother had said – this is how they learned their lessons – this is how if she loved rebel as much as she said she did – she would need to understand the creed. Her father had explained the same thing to her – instilled the details; but she had always loved the stories of Saxon and her great grandmother and Vae. They had been her favorite stories when she was younger and her grandmother had told them to her. But she wondered if he could recall the important of the rebels; of their creed as he spoke about them. As he spoke about the lines he came from. This man was older – purer Valentine than most and considerably more important because he was tied to something amazing – something powerful in her great grandmother. It excites her in a way she understood – only because she wanted something purer. She knew the Valentines today were softer; believing that they understood the creed and what it meant to be rebel but they didn’t. She wonders if he does. He is stalking towards her now; but she brandishes a harpy fire – a draconian thing, the flame that escapes from each strand of fur standing on edge – the beauty it takes, a rebel in the ring of fire. It is breathtaking –perhaps shocking because each of her defenses slowly slide deeper into place – he can come closer – but she is not a bitch who lashes out. She lets them come to her. ” perhaps you don’t know these stories..” - she murmurs the word’s, the length of her ears twisting backwards as slowly, each canine expresses itself in a hellfire fury – slowly, and with the flick of her tongue does she snarl , a clear invite, her legs shifting to support her weight – she is smaller than him; but this means nothing in the scheme of things. Not now; not ever – her 29 inches is not much smaller; but she is slimmer, and as her hackles raise in a flight of brimstone she invites him to the game he wishes to play. ” be my guest..” - she breathes the words threw the snapping of her teeth. He could come at her if he so pleased – she could test his worth.

She was mistaken, it was not that he did not care of his lineage - because he did, which is why one of his own daughters had been disowned from the Valentine name after proving herself unfit. The mere thought of that little bitch was enough to cause his stomach to twist, lips curling in meager aggravation. But ultimately, she has agreed to his little game, his little test - he couldn’t be more thrilled. A snarl suddenly unleashes from unhinged jowls as his weight had already coiled onto hindquarters, he springs onward and off of them, there would be little to no distance to cover ( maybe four feet ), which would mean an instant collision. Ears have already pinned as scarlet eyes are in narrowed slits, unhinged jowls swinging towards his left, aiming to latch directly onto the left side of her own neck. His chest would more than likely slam into her own, if she should not move. Hackles are erect, legs separated with his weight near the back, for better stance and balance. They are brawling on the peaks, away from the edges, but it would not take much for one of them to slip if they are not careful. Splayed toes brace themselves against th cool surface of the Styx.

They had been six foot apart; and she was expecting for him to come at her – it was obvious his goal was to test her; for what reason she wasn’t sure. Not that she cared, he obviously had no care at all about the truth behind their bloodlines, that or he was just to old school to really give two fucks. She is already in the mode to defend herself; he surges forward and she feels the coiling in her haunches and in her forelimbs as she tests the springing in her limbs. She knows that he is coming forward from in front of her , although she had presented to him her right side, he is coming across aiming for her left side of her neck. But she was already moving – twisting in a serpentine hiss, the flames along her body dancing as she leaps into midair, her back fete staying partially on the ground however – this would provide him a bite directly onto the left middle of the smooth fur and fat and sinew of her chest nearer to her shoulder, but this would also put her own teeth and aiming down towards the very top of his muzzle, right where it connected into his face – hoping to land a bite to control his mouth and head with her own teeth. Her tongue is flat and her front paws would aim to wrap around his shoulder’s or head – this would leave her up on her hind legs, pushing into him with her chest – allowing the pain to rush the adrenaline into her bloodstream, her tail straight up as she pushed and bit downwards – muscles clenching and ears backwards. Hopefully he would also not be able to breathe should this work; scrunched into her chest and her own bite into his muzzle – it would also hopefully prevent his head from coming upwards, with the close proximity.

they move together, two dueling beasts - a beautiful, deadly tango. he is engulfed in the moment, enjoying the brief thrill that it was to be near her, to touch her, even if it meant to physically harm her. and it's as they would slam into one another, his teeth gaining a grip to the meaty area of her breast, he would not maintain an established hold, however. in the same instant his teeth would make contact, they would release, all in the while he has sprung from coiled hindquarters in an attempt to slam up and forward, into Sibyl. Due to this, her teeth would not make it's original mark, instead, they scrape down the top of his skull, shredding his already ratty ears, missing chunks of them from previous eras of war. A snarl would unleash, lips remaining curled. The adrenaline was enough to salvage any pain from the wounds on his skull, they would be dealt with later - but he could not ignore the tentative sting as the winters breeze touched the exposed flesh. Her legs would wrap successfully around his neck as they now both stand toe to toe, his own forelegs aiming to grip at her sides whilst unhinged jowls pull upward, attempting to meet her teeth dead on. His own jowls, however, would be slightly tucked inward in an effort to prevent any reach to his vital throat, eyes sealed shut in prevention of any damage as they are so close in proximity now. It is then that Lethal would attempt to pivot his body down and towards the left, attempting to bring the bitch down with him and knock her off balance.

Meggn and I wanted to get this thread quickly over in an effort to continue on with our plots and real life things getting in the way. We have given each other full permission to powerplay and control one anothers characters. This is rated M FOR MATURE.

Sibyl It only takes moments; they are about the same weight, but it is the height issue – she had dealt with that her whole life. So if her teeth where to scrape his skull he would have had to either come up higher than her, or stayed tucked downwards, but he didn’t do either – instead he came straight up. Her teeth would slip from his skull , the rattle of hitting bone would make her gums numb with a sudden pain as she would attempt to keep her feet. She was good at it – she should be able to do it. But with his rear forward and then sudden lunge to drop her to the left – she was just to small to be able to withstand that movements. It is then that he grapples her and she snarls in a feral ignition, annoyed and irritated – she is a mixture of potent venom and a rattlers hiss as she twists her body the best she can to the left, trying to maneuver out of his hold if she could – tucking her chin to protect her neck; she would keep her shoulder twisted to his own face, hoping to land on her side with him and twist to bite into his face or throat.

Lethal He keeps his footing, his body hovering well above hers as she lays on her side - a hot breath withdrawing as he is swift to maintain the upper hand, hungry jowls aiming to snap towards her face as he would move to maneuver himself above her, ultimately causing her to move her face as her teeth make it‘s mark on his left foreleg, but she is moving, now on her belly in an effort to get rid of him and aim for the throat. It enables a reach to the nape of the neck, exposing it to his teeth as they bore into the flesh, tugging it roughly to secure a hold.

// force breeding here.

When it would be done, Lethal would release his hold, beginning to move away from her, uncaring for defenses as he feels the tension in his body ease away. He’d been used to women running off afterwards, never looking back - he expected her to do much the same.

Sibyl: There is moisture between the sleek curves of her slim thighs; she is not a woman who in the bare nudity of everything would break down and fear what was coming. If anything – she only embraced it ( because if she was did not, nude and exposed – embrace the forthcomings of this ordeal than it would leave her worthless) – the splaying venom of toxic affection wraps itself across her body in a dry nightshade as she snarls with a supple warning hiding behind the lament of her breath.
-past the forcebreeding-
He would maneuver away; she felt him – but there is nothing else but a primal /hate/ coursing through the edge of her veins. She is still on the ground; legs all beneath her and head lowered – ears flattened. She waits an acute moment – one – two – not even and twists in a serpentine rapture; front limbs lifting forward and hind quarters shifting her into action ; she doesn’t stop – she is hell bent of destroying everything that made him pretend he was a valentine. His blood was truly the only thing that mattered – and honestly, she figured she had that now. Her jaws would wrap around his throat as she pushed forward and from the ground upwards. He would probably not expect it – not that it mattered. She is a rapture , shaking her head back and forth – her lithe body springing like a slinky as muscle after muscle rolled in her vicious shaking. She would /eat/ out his larynx – sever the cords of his throat – and unfurl his life into her very jaws. At this point she is covered in his blood – muzzle stained and face blemished with it – although from the auburn of her own coloring it was hard to see. Tides of spurting liquid rivulets spray against her as she stops, standing and holding the corpse in her jaws, chest heaving from the consulting delight. A predatory shiver coarse across her back as she snorts; aiming to haul the body off to her personal home and do with it what she would.